


Midterms

by ThinCeiling



Category: Mahou Shoujo Madoka Magika | Puella Magi Madoka Magica
Genre: Choking, Cunnilingus, F/F, Masochism, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 02:00:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1840183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThinCeiling/pseuds/ThinCeiling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, the best way to study is not to study at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midterms

“Ah - ah - ah -”

Homura thrusts the flat of her tongue against Madoka’s clit, rocking her hips right off the mattress. Madoka grabs fistfuls of dark hair wherever she can; she tries to pull Homura deeper inside of her, needing more, but she’s already there, already as close to her as humanly possible. They are sweat and wetness and heat.

Both of them have long since discarded their clothes, which are strewn haphazardly over the rug, the table, the chair. What had begun as a diligent pre-midterms study session at Madoka’s house turned quickly into kissing when Homura insisted that they do things together, because the last time they fucked (“ _Ho_ mura,” winced Madoka - she had never liked the sound of that word) was two weeks ago.

“Ah - !”

Madoka finishes with Homura’s name on her lips. Her whole body quivering, she sinks back down onto the mattress. She hadn’t expected events to unfold so quickly, but Homura was just so good at kissing her mouth, her neck, her breasts, her stomach, and her hips, and one thing led to another …

So here she was. Lying on her back. Trembling in the afterglow of an orgasm.

Wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, Homura emerges from between her legs. “You’re so cute.”

“Homura, come on,” Madoka says, pink.

“What? It’s true.” Homura lowers her head to her navel, and in spite of her embarrassment, Madoka opens up her thighs. But instead of going between her legs, Homura trails her tongue up her stomach, leaving a glistening path in her wake.

“Hnn,” exhales Madoka. Her breath hitches in her throat when Homura drives her nails down her ribs. “Ah,” she groans as red lines surface along her sides. “That really _hurts,_ Homura.”

“Mm.” Tenderly caressing her nail-marks, Homura kisses her way up Madoka’s body. “Sorry.” Her lips are soft and loving against her skin, but after she plants a kiss in the hollow of her throat, she presses her teeth into the base of her neck.

“Homura! _Care_ ful,” Madoka says, squirming. “That hurts -”

Ignoring her protests, Homura continues to bite and suck her neck until a shining purple bruise emerges. Wriggling, Madoka shoves at her girlfriend’s shoulders. “Homura, seriously!” A low growl burns in Homura’s throat and she grasps Madoka’s forearms, pinning her down. As punishment, she pinches the skin of her neck between her teeth.

" _Hnng!_ " Eyes squeezing shut, Madoka turns her head to the side, exposing more of her neck.

Homura pauses, and pulls her lips away from her neck. “So you’re a masochist.”

Madoka's eyes fly open. “I-I’m not!”

Homura looks unconvinced.

“ _Really_ ,” Madoka huffs insistently, and Homura can’t help but smile.

“Not that I'd mind,” she says. She lowers her head and her teeth dig into her flesh once more, this time almost puncturing the skin. Madoka wiggles beneath her as if to prove she isn’t a masochist, but her struggle is half-hearted and her noises of protest sound more like groans of pleasure. There’s something about being pinned down, powerless, that excites Madoka’s very core of being, and she wonders if Homura’s also getting off on seeing her writhe so helplessly beneath her.

“Haahhh.” Sweat plasters her fringe to her forehead, trickling down her neck and sticking her bare shoulders against the sheets. Incensed, Homura bites and suckles harder and harder, her humid breath visible in the bare millimeters between their bodies. Madoka’s hands curl into fists, the tendons in her wrists stiffening like violin strings as Homura nearly draws blood.

Homura’s right, after all.

“Hnn,” Madoka pants, lifting her hips toward Homura’s, an unspoken plea for more. Freeing one of her forearms, Homura snakes her hand down between Madoka’s legs and eases open her lips, feeling the slickness there. Madoka’s lower back arches off the bed as Homura teases her finger up her opening, dancing mere millimeters away from her clit.

“Homura, mmnn, come on,” Madoka whines, her free hand grabbing at Homura’s hair. Homura dips one finger inside of her, pausing when Madoka stiffens.

“No?” Homura says, momentarily drawing away from her neck. Madoka shakes her head.

“Not there … T-there,” she exhales shakily when Homura’s finger strokes over her clit. She jerks toward her hand as Homura steadily builds up a rhythm with her fingers, all the while nipping and sucking her neck, their bodies pressed flush together.

“Ah,” Madoka says, her head thrown tightly against the pillow, pulling at Homura’s hair, “Homura - more - _please_ -”

“Fuck,” Homura gasps, pulling away from Madoka’s neck. She wraps her other hand around Madoka’s throat and pushes her thumb into her Adam’s apple.

Madoka’s eyes widen and she gags. Her first instinct is to fight for oxygen, but that instinct is quelled when Homura mounts the pace of her fingers, pressing and rubbing her clit at such a rate that she chokes out her name - “Homura” - in agony, in desire even as the edges of her vision turn black. As the pressure on her neck grows, Homura swims in and out of focus, and Madoka scrabbles limply at the hand holding her prisoner, knowing that she is Homura’s, and she wants to be _fucked_ by her, to be absolutely and completely _fucked_ senseless.

Homura’s fingers tighten around her throat, and she comes.

Her vision goes blurry as she rides out her orgasm, her hips thrusting against her finger of their own accord. When the last of the shocks subsides, Homura releases her throat and she collapses against the mattress, gasping. She devolves into a fit of coughing, her vision clearing. When the coughing fit subsides, she tries to speak, her voice gravelly. “That was…”

Sprawling lazily on top of her, Homura licks the purple hickey on her neck. “Good?”

“Y-Yeah…”

A smile creeps over Homura’s face. “You _are_ a masochist.”

A blush colors Madoka’s cheeks. Homura laughs and rolls over, dragging Madoka on top of her. “Oh!” Madoka says, her blush deepening.

“Madoka’s so cute,” Homura says, drawing her close. Madoka shuts her eyes, melting effortlessly into a chaste kiss; after such rough treatment, it was nice to be kissed gently - even if only for a little while. Eventually, she breaks off the kiss and rests her head against Homura’s chest. Homura strokes her hair, occasionally rubbing her back as a half-massage. This is what she really values about their relationship, she realizes. The quiet moments. The calm after the storm.

The calm after the...

“Ah!” Madoka lifts her head.

Homura looks down at her. “What’s wrong?”

“Our midterms,” Madoka exclaims, as Homura quirks an eyebrow, “our midterms start tomorrow!”

“Oh,” says Homura, “okay, just cheat off me, then -”

“Homura,” Madoka says sternly, and Homura shuts up. “Come on, let’s study together. It’ll be fun!”

“Madoka,” Homura groans as Madoka clambers off of her. Madoka hops off the mattress and places her hands on her hips.

“If you help me pass my midterms, I’ll...” She clears her throat. “I’ll let you do that, that thing. To me. Again.”

Homura straightens. “Really?”

“Yeah.” She hesitates. “I … think.”

Homura slides off the bed and makes a beeline for the desk before Madoka can change her mind.

“Where do you want to start?”

**Author's Note:**

> Commission 4 a friend. there ya go u trash monkey


End file.
